


empire state of mind

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2034 TE, Archon Radonis is elected with the threat of slave and Soporati rebellion heavy enough to discourage dissenting voices. While his background is somewhat of an enigma, he gained rapid public support for his anti-slavery and Chantry reform message. Radonis, with his uncanny ability to avoid assassination, a consort as beautiful as she is deadly, and a cat that follows him, like, everywhere, promises sweeping reform to Tevinter society as a whole. Whether or not he'll be able to enact real change or fall short on his promises is the question on every Vint's lips. (Brought to you by the DA Kink Meme!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	empire state of mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StormDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDragon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [King's Gambit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283181) by [manic_intent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent). 



> Slight change to the timeline! While Anders does indeed make the Kirkwall Chantry go boom in 9:37, the mage rebellion spreads a lot slower. Everything happens as it does in the canon, but the Conclave doesn't occur until 9:42, two years later than in the canon. Dates, when relevant, will be expressed in both the Chantry calendar and in TE (Tevinter Era).
> 
> This is another kink meme prompt, brought to you by http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13275.html?thread=50615515#t50615515 !
> 
> Significant credit for the structure of the Imperial Chantry, the Magisterium, and the Senate as a whole, as well as features of various cities and the names of some of the houses used herein must go to manic_intent and their work, 'King's Gambit'. They have thoughtfully given me permission to use these to better structure my version Tevinter society. It is much appreciated.

**9:40 Dragon / 2034 TE**

The door closes with the heavy thud of good dwarven make, and they break into frantic, hysterical giggles.

“We’ve done it,” Radonis says, the stoic mask he’s been holding for _months_ now breaking, an undignified snort slipping out as Lysandra heads for the decanter on a side table, shaking her head, shooting a probing spell through the wine to make sure it’s not poisoned. It would be so utterly wasteful and stupid if they came this far only to die by a sloppy assassination attempt. The spell comes back clean, and Lysandra tips some into the glasses, the hooded ferryman crest gilded on them.

“By the _Maker,_ we’ve done it,” he says again, shaking his head and crossing the room to peer out the window over Minrathous, curling back the curtain with his long fingers. The Argent Spire has traditionally kept quarters for the Archon to stay in until his official coronation, and the Black Divine is desperate to keep the Archon-Elect happy given how much popular support he has, not only from the younger generation of Altus, but the near unanimous support from the soporati and liberati, so they have been appointed quiet liberally.

And given the events of the last few weeks, given that the recount happened at all, it was for the best that Lysandra had checked the wine, though Radonis’ death at this point would have been sloppy and likely a cause for rebellion among the lowest classes.

While Lysandra is glad to sink into one of the plush sedans, Radonis paces, dragging fingers through his long black ponytail, making a noise of confusion when his fingers catch in the tie before simply tugging it out, allowing his hair to fall about his shoulders and the top of his back. There’s a mewl from the feet of the sedan, and Lysandra makes a cooing noise, scooping the cat into her arms, where it kneads her belly for a moment before settling down.

 _YOU HAVE DONE WELL_ , the not-quite-entirely-a-cat says, before starting to purr and resting its head on Lysandra’s chest. _WHAT IS NEXT?_

Radonis scrapes the palm of his hand against the short beard on his face and Lysandra groans, anticipating another round of fretting.

The cat licks its paw, then starts to work at cleaning its ear. _I JEST._

There’s a huff from the man who is going to be the next Archon of the Tevinter Imperium, but he scoops up the kitty, ignoring the mewl of protest from both Lysandra and cat to cuddle it sweetly in his arms, not minding the tabby hairs left behind on his dark robes.

“Well,” Lysandra says, holding up her fingers. “I have a four part plan for that. Part one, keep him alive until the coronation.” One finger down. “Two, figure out which of those Altus hotheads genuinely want change and which just want to piss off mummy and daddy. Two point five- keep him alive through all of this, nearly forgot that-” Radonis scoffs.  “—three- three is enact legislation which will penalize- _heh_ \- the enslavement of anyone not born inside Tevinter borders, and four is to establish Tevinter as a mage safe haven _without_ all those blood orgies and subjugation. Oh, and something for the elves. Get them into the Publicarium, at least. Maybe four parts is too small?”

She flops back onto the arm rest, looking up at the ceiling, and then at the cat in Radonis’ arms.

“You realize this is going to take some time, right, Justice? _Years._ Decades. We might not get everything done. I know you’ve said the Calling can’t affect him anymore, but having the Taint for that long must have affected his health. And this is assuming we don’t get brutally murdered. Half the Magisterium openly wants us dead and the other half is smart enough to be quiet about it. Justice, we _cannot_ have another Kirkwall—“

 _I AM AWARE,_ the cat says, ears flicking. Cats do not have the capacity to look ashamed, but this one is drooping. _IT IS EASIER NOW THAT I AM NOT WITHIN A HUMAN BODY. CLEARER. THE KITTY DOES NOT HAVE A WILL LIKE AN—RADONIS._

 _AND,_ he says, the purring starting again, _I UNDERSTAND THAT THIS POSITION IS USUALLY PASSED IN A DYNASTIC FASHION, OR BY ELECTION OF AN APPRENTICE. I AM PATIENT. I CAN WAIT._

The Archon-Elect, the man who will be His Imperial Radiance, First of the Magisterium, sighs, and bends to set the cat down on the floor. With the curtains open, there’s a new sunny spot for it to nap in, and it pads over before flopping onto its side.

“At least he’s calm about it,” he murmurs, sitting beside her. Lysandra sighs, straightens up, and rests her head against Radonis’ shoulder. By tradition, he’s dressed simply in a black robe with the Imperial Chantry’s heraldry on the back like all the other potential Elects, provided by the Magisterium for the ceremony. It’s the second time he’s worn it, and it’s as drafty as the last. There’s no better way to prevent last-minute assassinations than to strip Elects of all clothes and possessions and barely cover their nudity with ceremonial robes before allowing them onto the floor of the Senate for the vote, and Radonis hadn’t been given time to fetch his clothes. The roar of the crowd outside the Senate after the results had been announced had been cause for a ‘security concern’, and both Radonis- and at his insistence, the consort Lysandra- had been rushed to the Elect’s apartments in the Spire. They’ll move to Dragon’s Roost after the coronation and swearing-in, but that’s a few weeks away. That, and the entire family wing needs to be scrubbed free of blood, and new bedrooms chosen. It’s simply not proper to house an Archon in the room his predecessor was murdered in.

“Aren’t you?” Lysandra starts to card her fingers through his hair, the soft, healthy strands falling easily through her fingers.

“I doubt anyone in their right mind _would_ be, love.”  He tips his head back, all the better to look at her. The falling sun shines through her copper hair and he reaches his hands up to cup her face and pull her closer. “This could fall apart at a moment’s notice.”

They speak in Tevene. There’s no longer any worry of being overheard. The spells they both cast as a matter of course now hold against everything but a direct assault, and Justice, though dozing, would wake if that were the case.

Lysandra shrugs, reaches for her wine glass, takes a sip, then replies.  “We could have died at any step before this. That we’ve come this far could be indicative of the Maker’s desire for us to succeed.”

Radonis buries his face in his hands, the lines on his hands and face even more apparent as he frowns. “Don’t remind me, sweetheart, we have to spend every Saturday with the Divine now. ‘The Archon cannot simply skip the weekly Chant’!”

Lysandra clucks and kisses his hands, over where his mouth would be, and he parts them, catches her lips and lets his hands move back to cup her face.  He kisses slowly, the breaths between them heavy and warm, and the silk of her robes and his makes her slide into his lap frictionless. That they haven’t had time to make love in months occurs to them at roughly the same time, both surging forward, teeth clicking clumsily once or twice. Radonis pants, slides down the back of the sedan while Lysandra opens her legs to straddle him.

“Well,” he hisses, as Lysandra moves and nips at his throat. His hips thrust up at that, and she groans. “Justice did say something about a dynasty?”   

 

* * *

 

 

The coronation itself is a grand affair, absurd in the sheer amount of gold it must have taken to host it. _And_ there’s the after-party, but as he kneels in the Imperial Cathedral of the Faithful and bows his head and the Grand Cleric of Qarinus pours blessed water from the Minanter River over him, his only thought is that he must- _must_ \- remain appropriately somber and not flub his accent.

His robes are cloth of gold and black silk with red accents that bring to mind blood- the intention, he guesses. The water has soaked his long hair, and it drips down onto the robes, onto his face. He hopes the kohl around his eyes doesn’t run. Radonis stands, drops into another ceremonial bow to the Grand Cleric, then one to the magisters off to the right, and the Altus to the left, and then to the crowd of mostly Soporati, which he holds for a few seconds more, and then back to the altar, where Andraste forever burns to death with her arms raised to the sky.

Most Holy breaks from the ranks of the Chantry group, scepter and _pyx_ in hand, blessing him in High Tevene and droning, “--  make him one with Your Glory, give unto him Divine inspiration so that he might lead us-- ”

The _pyx_ is opened, and a wide swath of ash is spread over his eyes and the bridge of his nose with a gritty swipe of Divine Marinus’ thumb. (“Maker, bless his eyes that he might see the Path You lay before us.”) His lips are next, and as the ash drifts into his nose, he tries not to sneeze. (“His lips, so that he may speak only what is right for Your children--”)

This is the religious part of the ceremony, and he’s impatient for it to be over with.  Finally, Marinus takes his arm and helps him rise. The seals of his office are brought over by some mageling, as is a replica of Darinius’ Code of the Citizens, which Most Holy holds above him while he places his hand over the seals and swears to uphold it, facing the magisters. Hadrian is there, and catches his eye, but his expression belays nothing, cool and collected and utterly the same as the twenty-one other men and women in the Magisterium box, with some small variation mostly from his most ardent allies.

“Citizens of the Imperium, I give you Archon Radonis Sabinas, First of the Magisterium, Lord of Minrathous, Sword of the Maker.” There’s a round of polite applause, even the Soporati holding back for now. “May His Radiance lead long and well,” Marinus intones, lowering the Code and handing the box of seals to him. Marinus may not like him, but with the lack of support from the lower classes that the Chantry hierarchy has been suffering from, Marinus _needs_ him. Radonis can work with that. That Marinus chose to give a personal addendum versing a wish for a lengthy reign brings to mind all to easily the very suspicious death of the previous Archon after only four months in office.

Clasping the seals, the train of his robes trailing behind him, Radonis stepped down from the chancel and down into the aisle, trailed in a procession by the Clerics and then the rest of the Magisterium sans the Divine, followed by the senators of the Publicarium. As soon as he steps into the nave, the members of the Archon Guard fall into step slightly behind him. Notably, they end up between him and the Clerics.

Marinus starts a benediction for the safety of the new Archon and the choir takes it up, and Radonis doesn’t look back. The sun hits his eyes brightly after the hours in the Cathedral, but he smiles. The crowd- Soporati, Liberati, _slave_ \- cheer for him, and the Archon Guard at the steps strain to contain the masses. He knows them all by name, all fifteen of them who he- and Lysandra- trust with his life, but it is his captain Cyrus who leans to whisper in his ear, ever at his left hand.

“A speech, Lord?”

As if Radonis would not have one prepared, rehearsed. Surprisingly, sharing your head with no one but yourself makes thoughts a little easier to organize, and speechcraft slightly less difficult.

He smiles gently as Cyrus steps back, and he steps forward, raising his arms to as for silence, the great black sleeves of his robes like wings.

“People of Tevinter! I regret that I cannot say citizens and address you all as such. You are the reason I stand here, at the Cathedral of the Faithful in Minrathous, you are the ones who—”

 

* * *

 

 

He feels it in his arse when they move from the paved roads of the city to the dirt ones outside the official boundaries. At least he’s no longer required to make the journey in a chariot.

While the ceremony occurred in the Argent Spire, the celebration was to be held in House Tilani’s Minrathous residence. Leaving for the Tilani estate is the first time Radonis has been outside the Spire in weeks. Maevaris has been one of their staunchest allies in his rise, and he can’t help but wonder if the use of the estate and the costs associated with the party are meant to punish her and her family. He’s been shamefully out of the maneuvering for nearly two weeks now, and it makes him jumpy. That Lysandra isn’t there makes it worse.

She might be his consort, but there are no papers to prove her Altus, no house for her to claim allegiance to. That he might need to negotiate a marriage as a political play has occurred to him before, but especially now, as the pretty younger daughters of the Altus houses swirl around him, place their hands on his arm, simper. No. There are times where he will need to compromise in all of this, but Lysandra is not one of them. It’s amusing that she technically has the bluer blood in all of this.

There is, of course, unavoidable fanfare when he exits. Maevaris, as hostess, takes his arm when he exits and seems delighted to be his companion for the night. There’s good hour of introductions and pandering with some blatant boot-licking even before the appetizers are brought out, but Mae is on his arm for all of it, whispering names into his ear as he’s approached and generally being a delight. That she’s Varric’s family by marriage had initially made him wary, but he looks so different now, acts so differently now that he doubts even the dwarf could tell.

Sensing that he’s drifting between guests, Maevaris tugs on his arm gently and guides his eyes to a man approaching, at the tail end of the guests.

“And _this_ handsome fellow in that awful armor is Knight-Captain Ruprecht van Reeves, the nephew of the _late_ Lord Seeker.” He no longer has to repress a shudder when he sees a Templar- after all, the Order here is neutered to a point where there could be a point to some having the ability to suppress magic. As the Knight-Captain comes over, Radonis tries to take his measure. The Templar is one of the few here he’s meeting for the first time.

Pockmarked and barely old enough to shave, Ruprecht drifts over.

“Greetings, your Radiance, ser.” The boy is all long limbs he’s not sure how to use yet. Why the Imperial Chantry sent him over escapes Radonis, but he quirks his lips just so in that smile he’s grown so accustomed to using.

“Knight-Captain.” There’s a tinge of something in the air, and he placed it as lyrium in the same moment he realizes Ruprecht is sweating. That must be the source. He pats Maevaris’ arm gently, and she smiles winningly at the boy. Radonis can see his malferath’s apple bob. “This is the Magister Tilani, of Qarinus, Lady of that fine city.”

The events of Ath Velanis are relatively unknown, but everyone knows that the upstart Titus was killed in a less-than-sanctioned duel by Maevaris. It has made her alarmingly popular and titillating, but when Mae hoods her eyes and tosses her hair with a little shake-and-laugh, Radonis knows the exact moment Ruprecht’s balls shrivel back up inside him.

“M-my Lady.” It’s to the boy’s credit that he manages to stand still for another moment. “By your leave, Lord Archon?”

Radonis smiles indulgently and nods. Ruprecht has to be an offering of sorts. That he stuttered is shameful, and—Radonis catches himself. Not three years ago he had been an amateur at this, his only experience at politicking what he had witnessed in the Circle, too in love with the idea of being a rebel that he had smashed his way through everything since.  Now, though, he had a delicate hand- held steady by Lysandra, and necessity- and he used it well.

“Like a little baby bird with all those ill-fitting feathers,” Mae muses, taking a flute of champagne from a passing slave. “Why throw him out of the nest?”

They cross from the entrance hallway to the ballroom proper. They avoid the dancers and the middle of the floor entirely. Cyrus is his shadow, and for every guard he can see, he knows there’s two he can’t. It’s very comforting.

“Perhaps mother thought he didn’t smell nice enough and wanted the cat to take care of it?”

There’s an assortment of couches and high-backed chairs scattered, all the better for reclining and scheming, but the grouping at the front already has two of the Guard posted at the wall behind. Radonis brushed his robe under him and sits at one of the little two-person couches, gesturing for Mae to join him. Sweetly apologetic, she bends to kiss his cheek.

“Not now, dear. After I’ve been a good hostess and made sure everything’s running smoothly, there’s nothing I’d like more, besides perching in your lap.” He grins at her, and she winks, turning away before glancing over her shoulder, speaking low and sincere.

“I’m sorry about your lady-love. She should be here for this.”

If she’s faking the genuine tone, he can’t figure out the reason why. Lysandra likes her, and Mae seems the most prone of all the magisters to fits of genuine, unselfish emotion.

An elven slave passes him by, and Radonis makes one of those little gestures that everyone in Tevinter seems to know, the one that means ‘come here, slave’. He wants more of the little toasts with pate on them, but he gets that _and_ a polite whisper from the elf that tells him the Pavus heir wants to speak to him, and also that said Pavus heir had a row with his father that morning, _again_ , and that they’ll need to move quickly if they want to keep him in Tevinter. Actually, what the elf _says_ is, “Dorian would like to speak to you, my Lord Archon,” but he knows the score of the entire matter, and it’s not hard to extrapolate. It doesn’t bother him. What _does_ is that he doesn’t recognize the elf is disconcerting. Lysandra’s network is getting larger. Obviously, there’s a need for it, but he misses the days when he was still the only living member of a small branch House of House Valerianus, preaching and healing in the streets, knowing each spy by code designation and actually aware of the latest cypher.

Rather than woolgather on change and his place in the world, he claps his hands, stands, and allows the slave to lead him forth. This is doubtless just the first of several little meetings and rendezvous he'll have to take part in tonight. Far be it for any nation to want to throw a party that is just a party and not a clandestine political meeting cover. 

“Well, we better not keep the young Pavus waiting.”


End file.
